


prodigal

by Mayarene Rose (Paradise_of_Mary_Jane)



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU (Comics)
Genre: Dick cares too much about his fam, Everyone is sad in this fic, Family, Gen, Sad Ending
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-28
Updated: 2020-03-09
Packaged: 2020-03-26 07:37:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 19,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19001299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Paradise_of_Mary_Jane/pseuds/Mayarene%20Rose
Summary: Damian came to Gotham to be his with his father, but his father is not the person he expected. Drake is in Gotham but he seems to disappear into himself each day. Damian wants Grayson but Grayson does not want to be in Gotham.Three sons, one father, and the one problem they all face.





	1. damian i

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so this fic is actually nearly complete so I am probably not going to disappear for a year without an update. I'm just staggering the posting of the chapters to once a week so that I have time to finish the last few chapters. 
> 
> As always, this is set in the post-crisis universe. I make a lot of references to post-crisis batfam, especially. Characters are to be added once they appear. It's a story about the batbros so it's gonna feature all of them eventually.
> 
> That's all for now, I think. Onwards!
> 
> (Also I apologize in advanced for how I write Damian. I have no idea how to write the kid.)

It’s well past midnight when Damian makes the familiar trek into an innocuous looking window in Bludhaven. He doesn’t even care to be particularly silent about it. Anywhere else, it would be a concern, but this is Bludhaven, and no one bats an eye at the sound of a window being broken into.

Least of all the owner of said window.

Dick Grayson barely looks up from the meal that he seems to be having in the middle of the night. Mac and cheese, if Damian isn’t mistaken.

“You should work on being quieter,” Grayson says. “Mrs. Davidson from downstairs keeps complaining about the noise.”

“You should focus on finding a more appropriate living quarters,” Damian shoots back. “This is clearly inadequate for your needs.”

Damian isn’t in his Robin uniform, just dark jeans and a shirt. Strictly speaking, he shouldn’t be out tonight at all. He should be catching up on sleep. But Damian had been getting agitated and Drake had agreed to cover for him.

(“I don’t want another fight,” Drake had said tiredly. “God knows Dick’s the only one who can talk sense into you. Make him talk some sense into Bruce while you’re at it, would you?”

Damian hadn’t attacked him for it, although he sorely wanted to, just on principle. He respects the uneasy truce the two of them have come to.)

Grayson raises his head long enough to raise an eyebrow at Damian. When Damian continues to glare, hands on his hips, he looks away with a shrug. He continues eating as if nothing happened. Damian has to resist the urge to ask for a plate of mac and cheese as well, like some sort of child. He’s particularly fond of Grayson’s mac and cheese, and he rarely has the chance to try it, but this is hardly the time.

Instead, he says, “You need to speak with Father. He is being insufferable.”

Insufferable, in Damian’s opinion, is an entirely too kind word to use. Unbearable would be more apt, perhaps even infuriating. But Grayson does not like hearing Damian speaking ill of anyone, least of all his Father. Damian does not like speaking ill of his Father, either, not after everything he’s sacrificed to stay with him. If only his Father would stop doing things to be spoken ill of.

“You’re fighting with your dad again, huh?” Grayson asks, voice light, and Damian has to bite back a sharp retort that he’ll probably regret. It was Grayson who taught him that, too; being careful with his words, minding what he says because he might regret the damage he inadvertently causes. 

It’s a hard lesson to learn but Grayson has been infinitely patient with Damian. Damian learns a little more of it everyday.

He doesn’t understand how Grayson does it at all, how he does it so easily, so effortlessly. Doesn’t understand the lightness in his manner when it feels like all of Damian’s world is falling apart right before his eyes. And he treats it like a joke, like it’s a minor inconvenience at best!

Grayson is always calm in the face of anything. His world is steady and unshakeable. Damian does not understand how anyone can exist in such a way.

“Father refuses to listen to me,” Damian says. “He is always ignoring me.”  _ Like he’s scared of me. Wary.  _ Damian is not a fool. He knows his father’s relationship with his mother is strained, filled with hurt and betrayal on both sides. His father looks at Damian like he expects Damian to betray him at any moment.

Damian does not know what part of that hurts the most.

Grayson smiles slightly, patting the chair next to him. Damian had picked to visit the one night he knew that Grayson would be home. He usually takes a day every week off. It had been a stipulation from his friends, as far as Damian knows. Why Grayson chose to follow it is still a mystery. They must have threatened him with something dire. Grayson had been religious about patrol when he had been Batman.

Damian ignores the gesture, choosing to remain standing. Grayson does not seem to mind.

“Yeah he’s like that,” Grayson says. He pushes his plate of mac and cheese towards Damian in a silent offering. Damian pretends he does not notice. He is not here for pleasantries, after all. “You’ll get used to it.”

Damian doesn’t think so. He’s not used to being treated less than an equal. He had been a prince with the League of Assassins and he was Grayson’s partner as Robin. His father is… different. His father is dismissive. His father is controlling. His father leaves him behind at every chance he gets.

His father has never listened to him, not once. Never once considered his opinion. His father gives commands and expects Damian to just do as he’s told, even when there are clearly better, smarter, easier ways. And Damian knows that it’s his fault, although he doesn’t know why, so he can’t imagine how he can rectify it.

He’s heard how the others spoke of being Robin; like it was magic, something mystical, something that made them better, gave them the strength and courage to do things they normally would not do.

It  _ gave them purpose.  _ Damian wanted that as well. He  _ wants  _ that. 

He pointedly ignores the traitorous voice in his mind that says he already had what he wanted with Grayson. 

It wasn’t the same. Damian knows this. His father is the true Batman and the only Batman. Damian came to Gotham to learn from his father, to be with his father and no one else. Grayson was just a pretender, a fill in for the role that should be kept in Damian’s bloodline. That was what it was always supposed to be. That was what Damian had agreed to.

“What am I supposed to do?” Damian demands. “I cannot go on like this.”

He cannot go on with his father always glancing backwards towards him, wary, not quite trusting. He cannot go on if his father will always second guess him, doubt the most simplest moves.

Grayson taught him that Robin is supposed to be Batman’s partner, not his subordinate. Damian cannot unlearn it, no matter how hard he tries. And he doesn’t think he  _ wants  _ to unlearn it.

It is another failure on Damian’s part. He knows that his father knows best, knows that he should wish as his father wishes. His father is Batman, the  _ true  _ Batman, and everything Damian aspires to be. Damian should be doing his best to be as close to him as he can. Instead he is here, skirting his duties another city away, to seek advice from a man who could not possibly be more different.

Damian is a failure, in this regard. He does not know how he is supposed to fix it, to prove himself worthy. He is not even certain who he wants to prove himself worthy to.

Grayson looks at him from underneath his eyelashes, like he can’t bring himself to look at Damian fully. His hands are awfully still on the table. His entire body is motionless in fact. Damian narrows his eyes.

“Just be patient with him,” Grayson says. “Bruce will come around. He always does. He just wants what’s best for you.”

“That is what you always tell me,” Damian says slowly, trying to keep the frustration and anger out of his voice. Patience. It is Grayson who taught him patience. “That is what everyone has been telling me. It has been a year. He has not come around. He has gotten worse. Maybe a different approach would be more effective.”

“Dami…”

“Just come back home,” Damian blurts out. He blinks a few times. He did not expect those words to come out of his mouth. From the look on his face, Grayson did not either. But now that Damian is thinking about it, he cannot deny that it is the perfect solution. “Drake has been missing you. It will make him more tolerable, if you are around. He is not well and is more useless than usual. Clearly, you must help him.”

It is not exactly a lie. Drake has been… listless, as of late. Damian does not make a habit of seeking him out but when their paths do cross, it does not seem to bode well. Drake’s face is always a little too blank, gaze a little too distant. It’s a far cry from the witty, laughing boy that Grayson and Brown told him about.

Grayson cares for Drake, more than Damian would care to admit. It should be enough for him to come back home, isn’t it?

As expected, his eyes crinkle in worry. He often looks that way whenever Drake is mentioned. It makes Damian’s chest tighten with an emotion that he refuses to acknowledge.

“What’s wrong with Tim?”

“He’s being more useless than usual,” Damian says. “He is not sleeping, not eating, or sometimes he sleeps too much and he misses too much. Pennyworth is fussing too much over him. Even Todd seems worried. He needs you to come back home.” 

Grayson looks even more concerned. “I guess I should visit, especially if things are getting--”

“I do not want you to visit!” Damian is resisting the urge to stomp his foot on the ground like a child throwing a tantrum. “I want you to stay! We both need you to stay!”

Silence falls between them, punctuated only by the ceaseless noise of Bludhaven traffic. Damian is breathing hard, hands balled into fists. His palms are beginning to hurt from sharp nails digging into them. He tastes blood in his mouth.

There is something that looks broken in Grayson’s expression. It makes no sense to Damian. He cannot imagine Grayson being weak enough to be broken. It is simply impossible.

“Damian,” Grayson says softly. He is refusing to look at Damian. “You know I can’t.”

Damian does not know. He does not understand. He decides to change tactics.

“Come back home. Father is better when you are around.” Damian is too but he can’t bring himself to say that out loud yet. He thinks that Grayson understands nonetheless. 

And it’s the truth. Father seems to be lighter when Grayson is at the manor, younger. His eyes are kinder when Grayson is around and he snaps less. Damian craves Grayson’s quiet, even tones, telling him what to do, where to be, soothing his fears and calming everyone down. Even when Grayson is annoyed, even when he’s angry, even when he’s snapping, his voice never wavers.  _ He  _ never wavers.

Damian trusts him with his life. 

He… He cannot say the same for his Father. The thought is, perhaps, the greatest betrayal Damian’s committed against him.

“Come home, Grayson,” he says again, and hates the desperate edge in his voice, hates that he’s been reduced to begging.

Grayson taught him well but his lessons were never cruel before. Damian doesn’t understand why he’s being so unkind now.

“Dami.” Grayson hesitates. He finally looks up to look Damian in the eye. “Dami, your dad and I… We don’t do well living under the same roof these days, alright? I can visit for a short while but I can’t just go back, alright?”

That makes no sense. As far as Damian knows, his father raised Grayson. How could it be any hardship to return to one’s own father?

“Yes you can,” Damian says. “It’s better there, isn’t it? You would not be alone. Father is there, he can lead us, things can be better. Pennyworth will make your favorite meal. Even Drake would find some use for you being there. Maybe he’ll even be useful for once. And Todd listens to you more than he does Father.”  _ And I will be there, too.  _ Damian holds his tongue. He learned his lessons from his mother well. He keeps all weakness close to his heart, and that means keeping all desires hidden, as well.

“I’m not alone, Damian,” Grayson says, still in that infuriatingly even tone. Except now, there is an edge of anger there. Perhaps annoyance, but better safe than sorry, in Damian’s opinion. He cannot afford to misread anyone. “I’m just a city away. I have the Titans. I have you guys. I’m never alone. I don’t need to be in Gotham for that. Listen, I’m gonna stop by tomorrow to check on you guys, alright? Just to make sure Bruce isn’t messing up too badly but just be patient with him, Dami. He’s trying his best.”

_ I need you! Come home! Gotham is not home without you. None of us are the same without you.  _ Home for Damian, his  _ true home,  _ is afternoons spent in the penthouse, Grayson prodding him to do his schoolwork that is clearly above Damian but is, admittedly, sometimes interesting. Home is hot chocolates after patrol and ice creams on bad nights and mac and cheese at breakfast whenever Grayson is able to sneak it past Pennyworth.

Home is resting after hours of training, of learning, continuously learning, without the threat of punishment. Home is Grayson’s even tones, his unending patience, his casual touch.

Home is not a too large manor with too many empty rooms and too much history and too much expectations, sequestered away so far from the city Damian loses sleep from the silence. Damian’s mother told him of how Batman watches over Gotham like a king watches over his subjects. Damian thinks that he is very, very tired of being a prince.

Damian does not know how to say any of that without sounding like some ungrateful child. 

Damian chose Gotham. It was no hardship. It is where he belongs. So what if Gotham was suddenly swept from under his feet and turned into something unrecognizable? He made his choice. He must live with it. Damian has known this from the beginning. It was how he was taught to live.

But Grayson always finds another way, always has another answer, always does the unexpected thing. Damian needs him to be that once again. To find a way around the trap that Damian has led himself into.

“Come back home,” he says quietly. He balls his hands into fists, digging his nails into the meat of his palm. It is a struggle to keep his voice even, unaffected. He still has no idea how Grayson does it so seamlessly. “Please.”

Grayson stares at him for a moment. And for that moment, Damian almost believes that he has succeeded, that things will be fixed. He almost believes that he has finally convinced Grayson to do the right thing, the proper thing, the  _ reasonable  _ thing. 

For a moment, Damian almost believes that he will finally get his home back.

But then, the moment ends. Something shutters off in Grayson’s eyes. They harden. Damian takes a step back in surprise.  _ Not hurt, definitely not hurt,  _ Damian was just started, that’s all. Grayson has not looked at Damian like that since the very beginning of their friendship, when the two of them were just beginning to find their footing. Damian did not expect it, although he should have. Grayson has always been known for his unpredictability.

“Go home Damian,” Grayson says, voice hard. Damian takes another step back against his will. “Your dad’s probably looking for you.”

“Will you just listen--”

“Go home,” Grayson repeats. “We’re both right where we belong, alright?”

Damian looks on, eyes wide. Grayson’s face is an unreadable mask. Damian swallows once, twice. He wonders if this is a test, some trick, a puzzle he’s supposed to figure out. Grayson has never given him one like this before, had sworn he would never, but Damian thinks he would prefer that to, to this  _ coldness. _

Damian backs away slowly, taking care with each step. He waits for Grayson to explain, to detail the terms of his test. He does not. He just stares at Damian with the same hardness, the same steadiness that Damian once took comfort in but now makes him nauseous. 

Grayson does not explain. In this moment, he looks remarkably like their Father.

Damian swallows again. Then, he turns and runs.


	2. tim i

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me: *makes posting schedule*  
> also me: *completely forgets posting schedule exists*
> 
> We'll get there eventually. The plot stuff will happen... soon.

Tim’s been at the batcomputer for… He doesn’t even know how long. That’s either a really good sign or a really bad sign. Tim thinks he prefers it being a good sign.

Bruce has him working on accounts of crime families, or Bruce implied that it needed to be done and Tim had volunteered and Bruce hadn’t questioned it (though he did heavily imply that he’d prefer it if Tim took the next night or week or month off. Tim just decided to pretend he didn’t catch the implication). But even Tim thinks that he’s working too much right now. The words on the screen are starting to blur together and no matter how many times he rubs at his eyes, no matter how many cups of coffee he drinks, he can’t seem to get his mind to focus. It’s not that he’s tired--Tim’s gotten very good at functioning well past the point of exhaustion--it’s that he  _ can’t focus.  _ His thoughts are muddy and scattered at the same time. They’re like smoke, disappearing before he can even think of grabbing hold of them.

Still, he’s not so far gone not to notice the familiar set of footsteps in the cave. Careful but exhausted, dragging on the ground slightly. Strong but light-footed at the same time. Tim tenses and then forces himself not to, chiding himself for being an idiot. He’s in the cave. It’s been months since the last universe ending crisis. Tim’s safe.  _ Everything is okay.  _ There’s nothing to be worried about.

It’s Tim who breaks the silence. “I didn’t know you were in Gotham,” he says. Which is strange and wrong on so many levels. Tim’s supposed to know. Next to Babs, it’s his  _ job  _ to make sure he knows where everyone is everytime.

And besides, there was a time where he would have known. Where he hadn’t lost contact so much to the point where he doesn’t even know where his own brother is.

That was a long, long time ago, though.

“Damian’s been visiting more often than usual,” Dick says. “Thought I’d drop in to make sure Bruce isn’t doing too terribly. You know how he is.”

That makes sense, a distant part of Tim thinks. Damian had come home in a fury the night before from his visit with Dick. Tim has no idea what was said but Dick probably put his foot in his mouth. He has a habit of doing that. Or maybe it was Damian. That’s a lot more likely. A lot less likely is Dick dressing him down enough to infuriate him.

It irritates Tim, not having the right answer. Not having an answer at all. He used to be so good at this. Now, he can’t even figure out stupid sibling squabbles.

And then, more of Dick’s words start to sink in and Tim has to bite back a snapped retort.  _ Of course  _ it’s about Damian. Never mind that everyone else has probably needed him here too. Dick never seems to care about anything else now that Bruce is back and that he’s happily away in his Bludhaven apartment and apart from all their drama.

And Tim can’t really blame him for that. He’d want to run away too, if he could. He’d shed all of this baggage, all of this pain, if Tim thought it was possible, if he didn’t think people would get killed the moment he so much as thinks about taking a break.

Dick hasn’t so much as looked at him since they got Bruce back and things started to settle down. He probably knows all the things Tim did, how far he had to go. Tim doesn’t regret any of it, would do any of it again, but Dick always held the world in an impossibly high standard and Tim had always wanted to make him proud.

And the worst part is, Tim still resents him for all those dark months. He can’t help but think that maybe if only Dick had trusted him, had  _ believed  _ in him, then things wouldn’t have gotten as messed up as it did. The resentment is quickly followed by shame. 

Tim should have known better. Should have done better.

“But that’s not why I’m visiting now,” Dick says. “Well that’s part of it, but there’s more to it than that.”

“Why are you visiting?”

“Damian mentioned something when he came by. Something about you. He sounded worried, buddy.”

Tim’s hands fall still on the keyboard. He can’t imagine Damian ever mentioning him in conversation, let alone sounding  _ worried _ . The kid doesn’t even seem to care for Tim’s existence. Not for the first time, Tim wonders what the hell do those two talk about in their own time and how the hell those conversations are eventually gonna backfire on Tim.

“We need to talk,” Dick says.

Dick puts a hand on the back of the chair. Carefully. Gently. Delicately. Tim tenses again almost immediately and Dick definitely notices. Tim pretends he doesn’t, focusing a little too hard on the monitor or pretending to focus, anyway, because Tim still can’t really concentrate on anything. Dick was never one to avoid difficult conversations. He charges at them head on, fearlessly, recklessly. Tim has no idea what conversation wants to have but it sounds like a difficult one.

Tim is the opposite. He’s spent an entire childhood not talking about the things bothering him.

Unstoppable force versus immovable object. Those things were much more interesting when they were just thought experiments.

“Sure,” Tim says, settling for being obtuse. “Things have been pretty quiet with patrol recently and no one in the JLA seem to be trying to end the world so that’s good. I haven’t heard from Cass recently but you know her, she’s probably too busy overworking and making every single criminal in Hong Kong fear her shadow--”

“I don’t know what’s going on with you right now,” Dick says softly. “But it’s probably not good. You’ve been through a lot lately.”

“I’m fine,” Tim says. His mouth tastes like ash and asphalt.

“I never apologized to you properly,” Dick says. “I don’t think I even apologized at all. Things just happened so fast and--I’m sorry for doubting you. For making you feel like you didn’t have the support you needed. I’m sorry for driving you away.”

Tim closes his eyes, letting out one slow, careful breath. It  _ is  _ a difficult conversation. It’s  _ the  _ difficult conversation. It’s a conversation he doesn’t want to have. It’s a conversation he’s not even sure why Dick is bringing up now. He doesn’t know where it’s coming from. He wonders what the hell Damian said. Things are fine. Things turned out okay. Everything’s okay again. They all learned from their mistakes, Tim and Dick most of all. They’re brothers again. Why bring up the time when they weren’t? Why bring up all that pain when its purpose was served a long, long time ago?

“I told you Dick,” he says. “It’s fine.”

It is fine. It’s in the past. Tim’s good at keeping things in the past, at moving on, moving forward. He has to be. There’s no other way to be with their way of life. You either move on or you get someone you care about hurt.

Things are alright now. Bruce is home. Tim’s on speaking terms with Stephanie and Dick again, even if the two of them are keeping their distance from the manor for their own reasons. All his friends are alive and in this current time and dimension, even if Tim is stuck in Gotham and barely able to see any of them. He’s even settled on a sometimes truce with Jason and Damian that usually means that they glare at Tim from a short distance instead of actively trying to kill him. Tim is back in Gotham, back where he’s supposed to be, back with his family and friends, doing the thing he’s dreamt of doing since he was a kid. Everything in his life is more perfect than it has been in  _ years. _

Tim’s okay. There’s absolutely nothing wrong with his life right now. What reason could Tim possibly have for anything not being okay?

“Tim.” Dick’s voice is heavy, laced with  _ something.  _ Tim’s gotten good at being a hero over the years, he’s gotten good at being a detective, gotten good at reading situations, reading people, digging through all the facades and bullshit and find the truth underneath.

He’d gotten good enough to cut through Bruce’s walls but it wasn’t Bruce who taught him how to read people like this. Bruce is smart but he’s not as good at reading people as people like to believe.

Tim had always been taught by the best, Bruce made sure of it. They hadn’t known Cass at the time. Next to her, Dick was the best at reading people. At knowing what they were thinking before they did. 

Dick taught Tim everything he knew. Dick hadn’t taught Tim  _ all  _ he could teach. Until now, there are still times when Tim can’t quite get a good enough read on him.

_ What the fuck had Damian said? _

“Where is this coming from?” Tim says. “Why are you saying all of this now? I told you,  _ it’s fine. _ ”

“You’re not fine,” Dick says. “You need to tell me what you need.”

“I am,” Tim says. “I’m fine.”

“Tim,” Dick says. “Tim, please look at me.”

Tim feels the hand fall away. He misses the weight of it. The way his skin brushed slightly against Tim’s too long hair. But there’s no way to ask for it back without it being strange and awkward. TIm’s not some kid anymore. It’s not like he needs the reassuring touch of a family member to know that they’re really there.

He never really needed it before, anyway.

He takes another deep breath. Turns slowly and raises his head to look Dick in the eye. He’s wearing the Nightwing uniform again, without the gauntlets. It suits him, in a way Batman never did. Dick was exceptional at being Batman the way he’s exceptional at everything he does but Dick so clearly hated it and it brought an unfamiliar edge to his fighting. He probably just got back from patrol. Nightwing’s patrol is erratic, at best, but it usually runs up until around three in the morning and Dick has a habit of extending it. 

Tim had promised Alfred he’d be asleep by midnight tonight. Last night, if he really thinks about it, but he’d gotten distracted with… He can’t even remember what he’d gotten distracted by at this point, only that it had seemed urgent at the time but probably wasn’t. Everything feels urgent these days, especially since Tim can’t seem to hold onto his thoughts for more than a second, can’t seem to keep a clear head no matter how hard he tries.

Alfred had been worried about him. Tim wants to tell him not to, that he’s not worth the worry, that Tim’s more than used to it at this point, but he gets it. He’s basically stopped sleeping. It’s been weeks now and the only rest he gets is when he ultimately passes out. It’s a surprise Tim hasn’t found himself passed out because of a drugged coffee cup yet. Tim would be worried too, if he lets himself stop and think about it too much.

It’s not like Tim can stop, though. There’s always too much to do, too many things to plan for, to think about, too many people to save. He can’t hold onto a concrete thought but even he knows that. The moment Tim stops, bad things will happen. He just knows it.

“It’s fine,” he says again. His words sound a little bit distant this time around, like he’s not the one really saying them. Maybe he isn’t. Things have stopped feeling real for a while now. 

“I don’t expect things to be the same way again,” Dick says, as if Tim hadn’t spoken at all. Tim thinks he should be annoyed by this. He isn’t. He isn’t anything towards it, really. His mind feels numb, like the words are coming through to him from a fog, their strength and heat long gone by the time they reach Tim. “I don’t even expect you to forgive me, but I just want to tell you for how sorry I am for how I hurt you. I never meant to and… But that doesn’t matter.” He runs a hand through his hair, eyes flickering to the ground then back up to Tim, still with the same steely determination. “I’m sorry Tim. I’m so sorry. You shouldn’t have had to go through any of that alone.”

Tim is looking at Dick but he’s not sure he’s really seeing him. He looks down at his hands and notices that he’s clenched them into fists and doesn’t remember doing that. He doesn’t feel like he should be clenching his fists but he is. There’s an unevenness to his breathing that he’s struggling to control. Tim unfurls his fists, loosening his posture along the way, forces himself to relax. 

He’s not sure if it works.

“What do you want me to say, Dick?” he hears himself say. Tim doesn’t like thinking about those months he was alone, doing anything and everything, willing to do things he shouldn’t have just for one shred of evidence, the smallest sliver of a chance that Bruce might still be alive, that he was actually right, and that Tim can bring him back. 

He doesn’t like to think about the fact that he doesn’t really remember much of it at all. He remembers that obsession, remembers not being able to sleep, barely able to eat. Remembers hurting every single moment in every single part of his body, sinking so far into himself that every breath feels like drowning. It felt a lot like he feels now. A bit like he’s not really in his body, like he’s not a real person, just something watching Tim Wayne go about life.

The details are really fuzzy. Tim remembers what he did. He doesn’t remember how. Doesn’t remember doing them at all. Remembers a body moving but not being sure he was the one in it.

It doesn’t matter, anyway. Tim would have done it again to bring Bruce back, gone through that strange emptiness again, spent his entire life with that numbness that aches worse than any broken bone, just to get Bruce back. That’s what he’s here for. That’s  _ his entire point. _

Tim did what he had to, what he always does, what he’s meant to do: believed in Batman hard enough that it brought him back to life. 

It all turned out for the best. What was the point of looking back, digging up past hurts, when things turned out okay in the end? 

Things are fine.  _ They’re fine.  _ Tim is fine. Everything is fine. All those things Tim gave up, those things he did, things he wished he had, memories he wishes he didn’t have, they’re all in the past now and Tim is living the life he’s always wanted to live. There’s nothing left to be said apart from that, is there?

Dick is happy, finally away from the mantle he despises. Damian is happy, having the name he craves. And Bruce is here, alive and happy, on good terms with his children, possibly happier than Tim’s ever seen him, could have possibly made him.

And Tim is here. He’s home. He’s alive. Things are okay. Everything is fine.

For some reason, his answer isn’t good enough for Dick. Something like heartbreak flickers through his face and Tim doesn’t know what to do with that.

Dick sinks down to his knees, kneeling in front of Tim, hands braced against the arms of the chair in a practiced gesture. He used to do that the first time he was Batman and Tim was his Robin so that they’d see eye to eye. He did it when he thought conversations are supposed to be important or when Tim felt like a smaller version of himself, like a pretender in a Robin costume. They looked at each other as equals.

Tim’s grown since then. Dick has to look up at him now. There’s so many things wrong with it. Tim wants to sink to his knees too, wants to find the right height of the chair, or get rid of it entirely for something more fitting, something that’s just right, so that they’d be on even ground again. So that things would go back to what they were before.

But they aren’t. Tim can’t go back to that easy time where Dick was Batman and Tim was his Robin and the two of them were having the time of their lives. Now, when Dick sinks to his knees to look at Tim, Tim has no choice but to look down at him.

Neither of them can go back to what they once were. The only thing Tim can do is shed the past behind him and keep charging forward.

“Tim,” Dick says. “I would do  _ anything  _ to make things okay for you again.  _ Anything.  _ But you have to help me out, buddy. I know you don’t really want to talk to me right now and that’s okay but you have to talk to someone, Conner, Bart, hell even Jason, I don’t know, but you can’t keep going like this. You have to tell me what you need.”

“Everything is fine,” Tim repeats. “I’m fine. How could it not be fine, Dick? Stop making a big deal out of it, alright? It was months ago.”

Months means a long time in Tim’s book. Anyone can die in their world, at any moment. Having months of relative peace is a blessing.

“You’re not sleeping.”

“You know I’ve always had trouble sleeping, even before Robin. It’s not a big deal.” Tim wonders how many times he has to say those words before they start feeling real.

“You’ve lost weight.”

“Puberty.”

“You’re--You’re hurting yourself like this,” Dick says quietly. “You’re not happy Tim and I don’t know how to help you.”

“I haven’t been happy in a long time. It doesn’t matter. I’m fine.”

Tim snaps his mouth shut. He hadn’t meant to say that out loud. He hadn’t even realized he’d been thinking it, that those are words that were lingering unseen and unsaid in his mind.

For a moment, an ember of emotion blooms in his chest. It feels like anger. It feels like grief. It feels like terror. Maybe something in-between those three things. Tim isn’t sure. It’s gone too quickly for him to be sure.

The heartbreak is clear on Dick’s face now. He doesn’t even bother trying to hide it. Tim can’t imagine feeling that much, so clearly, so vividly, let alone showing it. He thinks he might have been like that once, but the Tim who was once like that feels like a stranger. 

_ Stay,  _ part of Tim wants to say. Dick is a touchstone. Tim wants to give him a chance because Dick always,  _ always  _ fixes things, always finds a way to save the day. He saved Tim even before he knew him. Tim wants Dick here, to stay, to make things better, like he always does.

But that’s not fair. Tim is  _ fine.  _ There’s nothing to be made better.

And Dick can’t save him. Tim is past the point of waiting to be saved. God knows Tim is more than capable of saving himself.

He doesn’t know why Dick does it anyway, can’t figure out why he did it once. It never helps. In Tim’s experience, it just makes things worse, makes people want to leave faster.

There’s that ember again. It lingers longer this time but not long enough to hold onto. Tim doesn’t think he’d want to know what it was, even if he could.

He gets up abruptly from the chair. Dick lets him. He could’ve stopped Tim, he was blocking Tim’s path, could’ve held on and kept him there, but he doesn’t. He lets Tim pass.

Dick could have held on but he didn’t. Tim doesn’t understand why that sends a flicker of pain through his chest. He got what he wanted, didn’t he?

“I have to go now,” he says when he’s already halfway to the stairs. Dick doesn’t stop him. Tim can’t bring himself to turn back to look at his brother’s face. He’s not sure what he wants to see, not sure if he can bear it if he doesn’t find it. “I promised Alfred I’d actually sleep tonight and--”

“Tim.”

Tim swallows. “Yeah?”

“Just tell me how to help you,” Dick says, desperate. “Tell me what to do. I don’t know what to do.”

Tim takes another deep breath. It’s getting harder and harder to keep his breathing even.

“There’s nothing to do,” he says. “I’m fine, Dick. I’m always fine.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments, as always, give me life <3
> 
> I'm at [acediscowlng](https://acediscowlng.tumblr.com) on tumblr. Come give me a shout!
> 
> 'Til the next update!


	3. interlude: dick grayson

Dick is alone in the cave, back in that place he really did not want to be in again ever in his life.

Not the cave, specifically. The cave’s just a place. It doesn’t really matter, in the grand scheme of things. Most of the time, he even actually likes being there, if circumstances were different. It’s just that right now he’s intimately familiar of people walking away from him in this exact spot because Dick can’t make himself the right kind of person for them.

Tim’s words echo back and forth in his skull, thundering against it. The blank look on his face, the way his voice sounded, like he wasn’t really there. It was like a physical stab to his chest. And Damian, asking him to come back like it was that simple. Tim, here, in the manor, withering away, Damian falling back on his old insecurities. Dick is a problem solver by nature and this one seems like an easy one. Dick moving back to Gotham seems like the easiest way to fix things.

Dick doesn’t know how to tell either of them how he can’t stay at the manor again, not permanently. It’s a lot of baggage to know, baggage those two don’t deserve. No one else knows, anyway, probably not even Bruce. Just Dick. Just his own insecurities. Just his own selfishness.

The manor stopped looking imposing after Dick’s fifth month staying there. It stopped looking like a too hard prison that will swallow him whole if he so much as breathed wrong. It took five months for him to even consider learning how to breathe again after his parents’ death.

It lasted all well and good for about eight years or so. There were ups and downs, sure, and a whole lot more downs towards the end, but the manor was a place that became almost too easy, some place he knew he could always breathe easy and not have it fall apart all around him; almost like a home. Dick almost got comfortable.

It took one day, one missed opportunity, one wrong word for the world to disappear from underneath his feet.

And a dead brother, of course. Who could ever forget the dead brother?

 

* * *

_ “It would be good wouldn’t it?” Dick says, practically bouncing on his feet on his excitement. There was something about Gotham. He knows his dad doesn’t like the city, but Dick loves it there. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen a place as alive, as real and vivid as Gotham! He always loves the way the people screamed for them here. It sounds like they practiced it with how loud they are. “Having a little brother? Or sister! It would be great! I liked that little kid, didn’t you, but he didn’t seem too happy. Do you think he’d laugh if I did my quadruple somersault for him?” _

_ Dick just learned how to do the quadruple somersault a few months ago and he’s technically still not allowed to do it in a performance. But the kid--Tim--looked so happy at the thought of Dick performing it. Dick had absolutely no choice but to say yes. _

_ “He did ask your for it,” Dick’s mom says, amused. _

_ Dick turns to her, delighted. They’re prepping for the show already, chalking up their hands and going through their stretches. _

_ “Can I do it?” he asks excitedly. “Can I, Mom? Just this once? Can I can I can I can I?” _

_ His mom and dad laugh. Dick’s grin widens. _

_ “Yeah you can, Dickie,” his mom says and Dick lets out a whoop of joy. He cartwheels across the floor, to let out some of his excitement. His mom catches him by the foot and gives him a disapproving look. Dick smiles at her sheepishly, tucks into a roll to come out in a sitting position, and goes back to stretching. _

_ “Just this once, son,” his dad says sternly. “You’re still too young for it.” _

_ “Sure dad!” It’s going to be the best quadruple somersault in the history of quadruple somersaults. _

_ “And about that baby brother,” his mom says. “Is that what you want? Do you want a bigger family?” _

_ “Of course I do!” Dick says. “I’d love to be a big brother.” _

_ “Really now?” His mom’s voice is sly. _

_ “I’ll take care of them, too,” Dick says. “I’ll be the best big brother in the world.” _

_ His dad laughs again and Dick can’t help but smile as well.  _

_ “I’m sure you will, Dickie,” he says. “You’ve never let us down before, have you?” _

 

* * *

The two of them are alone in the cave. Dick is back in Gotham for the first time in months and Bruce won’t even look at him. Too busy writing reports, checking for God knows what, monitoring Dent’s re-imprisonment, pretending he’s not as badly injured as he is, pretending he isn’t ignoring Dick even though that is precisely what he’s doing. Dick doesn’t even know why he’s still here, in the cave, apart from the fact that the last time Dick left a kid alone with Bruce and a Robin costume, Bruce went and got the kid  _ killed. _

(That’s not fair, though. Jason’s death isn’t just on Bruce. It’s on Dick, too, for not being there. For not being more. Not helping more.

He let his petty resentments, teenage tantrums, all the anger he can’t even explain now, stop him from doing the right thing and being there where he was needed. 

If Dick just sucked things up and did his responsibility, been there for the kid just like he promised, reached out more, did what he had to, then maybe…

Maybe Jason would still be alive.

That one’s on Dick. It’s a burden he’ll always carry.)

Bruce is tense, absently rubbing at his shoulder while he’s still typing up his report. Dick rolls his eyes. He can’t blame Bruce forever. And now that Tim’s here, he sure as hell can’t stay away, no matter how much either of them want him to.

“Are you trying to hide injuries again?” Dick asks, settling for the most light-hearted he can get. It’s harder than he thought it would be, and he already thought it would be really hard. He hadn’t had to put on this mask for a while. Being with the Titans has spoiled him.

Bruce grunts. “I’m fine,” he says, which he only says when he is absolutely not fine.

Dick snorts, stepping closer to Bruce and pulling up the suit. Bruce tries to bat his hand away but it falls away when he turns to look at Dick. Dick doesn’t know what he looks like but something like regret passes through Bruce’s face. His hand falls away.

Dick files away the expression for later. He has no idea what it means but it’s probably going to be useful in the future. 

Bruce looks away quickly but Dick already caught it. He’s good at that.

“A building fell on you, Bruce,” he says patiently. “There’s no way in hell you’re alright. Or did you forget that I was the one who had to carry you out of there.”

Bruce sends him a disapproving look. It feels more than a little bit surreal. Dick never really policed his language in front of him, even when he was a kid. Bruce never really understood the concept of a swear jar. He still disapproved of coarse language, though, always giving Dick that exact same disapproving look that used to send him into uncontrollable fits of giggles.

Dick’s not a kid anymore, though. The look just makes him feel old. Much too old.

“You were caught in the explosion, too,” Bruce says.

“Yeah, well I’ll take care of it later. I’m not the one who has a bad history of hiding injuries, B.” 

Bruce turns again to raise an eyebrow at him. It’s so startling, the look so familiar and distant at the same time, that Dick has to stop himself from flinching away. His hand falls away from Bruce’s torso. He grabs a roll of bandages, busying himself with the medical table. 

For a moment, Dick remembered what it was like before Jason, when things were still okay and happy between them. Then the memory of a bruise blooming at his jaw, and the cold floor of the cave comes and takes that memory away.

“I can take care of myself,” he says. “I’ll have Raven heal me later. She doesn’t like it when any of us are injured and she’ll fuss regardless. Besides, it’s more important for you. Can’t set a bad example for the kid, right?”

Bruce is quiet again. Dick doesn’t really expect a response. He lifts his costume off without a word of protest to reveal a mottle of bruises. Dick hisses in sympathy. He is definitely going to feel that for weeks.

But then again, Dick has theorized that Bruce has long since become numb to bruises. God knows Dick is. The day he wakes up without his body aching like he went through a meat grinder is the day he’s dead.

Still, Dick rubs some salve on it. Disinfects the open wounds. Bruce doesn’t flinch, doesn’t give any indication that he feels anything at all.

Sometimes, Dick wonders if Bruce is still capable of showing people that he feels. He remembers a time when he did. When his smiles were easier, his laughter a regular thing Dick heard, his voice gentle. Those seem to be just some of the things he buried in his crusade against evil. 

Dick remembers being eight-years-old, making a quiet oath by candlelight after Bruce has left him to his own devices, swearing that he won’t let that happen, won’t let this kind man with a kind smile and gentle hands go too far and do too much.

Dick was supposed to  _ save  _ him, was supposed to be his light. Look how well that turned out.

“I’ll just finish this up then say goodbye to Alfred and the kid,” Dick says. “Then I’ll be gone.”  _ Just like you want.  _ Bitterness is a strange emotion on his tongue. Dick doesn’t like dwelling on it too much. He doesn’t like giving it a voice.

He knows where that path leads, too.

“Have I told you about the Titans yet?” Dick asks. “We’re not really… Things have been pretty quiet lately which is nice, after that thing with Donna…” He trails off, remembering just exactly what was happening while Dick was off in another planet, dealing with that thing with Donna.

He’s rambling. Speaking and speaking, movements intentionally slow. Dick is stalling, he knows. He doesn’t really have a reason for staying and every reason not to. The Titans have always been the last thing Bruce wanted to hear from him. He never cared about what they did before. Dick keeps talking anyway. It helps keep other words, other memories at bay, for the most part.

_ I don’t  _ need _ a partner. I never should have had one. And I never will again. _

_ I suggest you  _ leave.  _ And give your key to Alfred on the way out. _

Dick is good at moving on. He has to be. He was born for it. Centuries of wandering and persecution and then more wandering to avoid persecution. Moving on is in his blood.

Never put too much value on places because you’re not going to stay long, you’ll never know when it’s going to kick you out, when you have to get up in the middle of the night, pack up whatever you can carry as quickly as you can because places change so suddenly; you can go from belonging to not belonging in the blink of an eye. The only thing that matters is your family, the people around you, the ones who decide to stay despite everything.

And then sometimes you have to move on from that, too. Sometimes family leaves anyway, sometimes by choice, sometimes not, sometimes because they never really wanted you in the first place. Not the mess that you are, the parts of you that mess up, that makes mistakes, that get too angry and too violent too quickly, the parts that doesn’t follow orders and was never a good soldier.

And Dick’s gotten good at moving on from that, too. Hold his head high, keep moving, keep walking, take what he has, leave, and find something else. Settle someplace else. Find a new family. Find new people to care about, to live for, to  _ stay  _ for.

Dick’s very good at it. It’s a painful way of living and he’s not really sure how long he’ll be able to keep it up, but it’s the only way he knows how to live.

He cuts the last of the bandages, lays the pair of scissors on the medical table, and cleans up the last of the blood.

“I’ll go now,” he says, turning away. His entire being aches and there’s pain shooting up his left leg again which means he probably fractured it again. Raven’s gonna be pissed when he gets back. “Just--take care of the new kid, alright? Don’t--”  _ Don’t get another kid killed. Don’t take anyone else I care about from me. Be careful with the people who love you. Take care of yourself, please.  _ The last time Dick so much as implied that, he got kicked out of a place that he ended up caring about more than he should have. 

Besides, a lot of it is on Dick, too. He can’t keep blaming Bruce. He just can’t. He needs to blame himself too. He  _ knows  _ that. He wants to be there for the kid, will make damn sure that the kid knows he’s there for him no matter what, that he can talk or train or run to Dick  _ no matter what.  _

He’s not going to leave Tim to Gotham’s mercies, to all the ways Batman fucks up human interactions. But he can’t stay. Bruce made that pretty clear.

“I’ll just go now,” Dick says. He can’t seem to make himself move.

“Dick.” The voice comes out quiet, almost hesitant. Dick freezes. He can’t make himself turn around. “You can stay.”

“I can stay,” Dick repeats. His voice comes out flat, disbelieving. Bruce makes it sound so easy, doesn’t he? He can stay.  _ You’re going to stay here now, if you want. You’re going to stay with me. You have a home here. No one is ever going to make you leave if you don’t want to. _

Bruce gave him a home, made him believe that he had a place that was just his, and then he ripped it away. Dick doesn’t hold it against him, not really, not when some part of him always half-expected it, but there’s a wound caused by that act that he’s not willing to prod yet.

Dick was born on a moving train on the first day of spring. Before Gotham, he had never stayed in one place for more than a month. Itchy feet, his mother called it. He almost ran away from the city when his parents died, with only the clothes on his back and endless wells of determination. He only stayed to make sure he brought their killer to justice.

Then he stayed for Bruce. For Robin. For Batman. For Gotham.

Dick  _ chose  _ to stay, chose to settle, even when everything in his blood, in his entire being, everything he learned, went against it. Staying meant letting a place take over you, letting it become a part of you, letting the place matter, loving it as much as you loved people. It’s harder to move on from places, harder to forget the familiar scents of mahogany wood, of smog filled air, harder to forget the ceaseless noise of traffic, of the chatter of a city. It’s harder to leave it behind when it inevitably kicks him out.

Dick stayed. He never needed Bruce’s permission to stay, he just needed a reason to go.

And Bruce did really give him a good reason, didn’t he?

(Jason’s--a kid, a  _ good kid’s _ \--blood on his hands. Another person Dick failed to save.

_ And leave your key with Alfred on the way out. _

One mistake, one missed call. That was all it took.

Dick’s home for Jason’s life. Dick thinks that he deserves a worse punishment than that.)

Bruce doesn’t say anything else and Dick doesn’t know what else he can say. He doesn’t know what he expected. Does he expect an apology? Does he expect Bruce to remember that Dick can make his own choices, that he’s always made his own choices, and Bruce has never been able to stop him before?

_ And look where making your own choices led you. Jason is dead because of you. You weren’t there to save him. _

Dick closes his eyes and takes a steadying breath. This isn’t about him. This isn’t even about Bruce. This is about the kid--Tim, who’s upstairs, with the same bright eyes Jason had, and with the same fierce determination that every hero has. 

Tim is born for Robin, born to carry Dick’s name and save Batman from himself. Who is Dick to deny him that? 

Dick’s not going to stop him. But he’s sure as hell going to be there for him.

He turns back, painting a smile on his face, the one that not even Bruce can see through.

“I think I will,” he says, and it’s a small thing, no one else but Alfred would have noticed, but Bruce relaxes minutely. “Thanks, B.”

“Alfred will be glad to have you again,” Bruce says.

Dick continues to smile. It’s not hard to keep up. He’s been putting on a show since the day he was born, and this is a performance he can’t afford to fuck up. Not again. He can’t let his own issues make him lose sight of what’s really important. This is bigger than him.

He needs to remember how to stay in a place that so carelessly threw him away.

 

* * *

_ “You nervous Dickie?” _

_ Dick looks up at his dad. “Never,” he says. _

_ His dad ruffles his hair. “That’s my boy,” he says. “You’d have to learn to be a catcher soon, if you want to be big brother. Can’t keep flying away, little Robin. You need a reason to stay still, too.” _

_ Dick frowns. He thinks of his dad’s arms, strong and sure, keeping him from falling.  _

_ “I’m going to be the best catcher in the world,” he tells his dad. It makes his dad smile, much smaller but much happier this time. _

_ “I know you will, Dickie,” he says. “I know you will.” _

 

* * *

The cave is colder than usual. Or maybe it’s just the fact that Dick is trembling a little. He can’t stay. He  _ can’t.  _ Not when he’s already back in a place where he isn’t self-destructing every other day just to be on Bruce’s beck and call, making sure he doesn’t self-destruct, or Gotham doesn’t self-destruct, or anyone in Gotham gets themselves killed through self-destruction.

Dick’s in a  _ good place,  _ for the first time in a long time, and he can’t fall back on old habits. Not when he remembers with perfect clarity just where that led.

But he also knows what will happen if he leaves again. 

It’s always a choice like this, isn’t it? Always life and death, always black and white, who makes the sacrifice and who gets to live. 

Dick wishes that once, just once, he doesn’t have to be the one making them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> come yell at me at [acediscowlng](https://acediscolwng.tumblr.com)!


	4. tim ii

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so I know this is more than a little late. In my defense, I was graduating college, which is actually 95% dealing with bureaucracy and 5% actual graduating. I haven't had the time to post until now.
> 
> Anyway, it's here now. Please enjoy!

Tim isn’t quite shaking as he walks away from Dick. His hands are clenched into fists and he has to take several deep, steadying breaths, but he isn’t shaking. He has better self-control than that.

He turns a corner and he catches Damian lurking in the dark shadows, near the stairs, watching him. He almost snaps at the kid to scram, to get away and stop trying out a bad imitation of a Russian spy from a James Bond movie. There’s no question as to what he was doing and it sends a flash of irritation surging through TIm. Damian shouldn’t have heard any of that. It’s not like the demon needs any more of Tim’s weaknesses to exploit. But then he notices that he’s looking at Tim with wide eyes, face pale. His jaw is clenched which is the only indication that he might be angry. If Tim didn’t know better, he’d think Damian actually looked scared. He’s lurking behind a pillar, half-hidden by shadows.

Tim deflates. It’s hard to hold onto anything, even the semblance of annoyance he had when he walked away. Damian maybe doesn’t even deserve Tim’s annoyance. It’s not like eavesdropping isn’t a family hobby.

Or maybe Damian is a little shit listening in on conversations that are none of his business but being annoyed is physically exhausting and Tim doesn’t have the strength for it right now. Not for someone like Damian, anyway.

Maybe Alfred is right and Tim should get some sleep.

(Or maybe Tim lost something important inside him at some point in his life and he’s not getting it back no matter what he does.

He doesn’t like to think about it very much if he’s being perfectly honest.)

“Drake,” Damian says quietly. He sounds like an eleven-year-old, scared and hesitant and oddly lonely with barely a hint of his usual boisterousness, not nearly enough to cover the fear. It’s a strange experience, hearing that kind of thing from Damian. “You must convince him to stay. It’s better if he’s here. You know this. We both know this. We cannot go on like this.”

There’s enough fear and vulnerability in his eyes to make Tim pause. The kid actually looks scared. Tim doesn’t think he’s ever seen Damian scared before. It’s an emotion he wasn’t sure the kid was capable of, which is a thought that’s all kinds of unfair and petty but Tim’s allowed to be unfair and petty in his own head. 

He’s kinda concerned, actually, that Damian’s acting like this, but in that distant, not really there feeling, kind of thing. Like the concern he reads about in books. Concern that’s not really his but would have been once upon a time.

He doesn’t think that it’s just because he and Damian never really liked each other.

_ Go on like what?  _ Tim wonders. Things have been the way they always have. Or did Damian expect any different? Tim is genuinely bewildered. Did he come to Gotham expecting to have a good  _ home,  _ like the kind they tell about in stories? They’re a far cry from the League of Assassins, sure, but it’s not like any of them were ever functional. 

Tim knew that coming in. Even at nine, he pretty much figured that completely sane people did not dress up as bats and birds and beat up criminals in the night. Damian should know this.

Tim narrows his eyes, looking at Damian more closely, searching for the lie. He doesn’t find anything. Doesn’t find malice or glee or anything horrible or twisted-like. The kid’s face doesn’t betray anything except for his eyes which are wide, vulnerable, scared, and  _ disappointed.  _ His jaw is clenched, hands balled into a fist, like he’s bracing himself for an argument. Or he’s making an argument out of something because that’s the only way he knows how to communicate.

_ Holy shit. _

Tim moves on automatic. He tilts his head towards the exit and begins walking. Lurking is hard in the cave, especially if you’re trying to hide from other people who are also fully trained superheroes. It’s a miracle Dick hasn’t noticed the two of them whispering to each other and come up to check on them yet. Tim’s not taking that chance.

Damian follows, surprisingly enough, uncharacteristically silent. It puts Tim on edge but he doesn’t mention it. Tim doesn’t stop until the two of them are in one of the unused studies of the manor.

He turns back to look at Damian. The look still hasn’t gone away, though it’s stained with irritation now. Damian’s probably having a lot of trouble holding back some insult right about now. The fact that he’s even trying is strange enough on its own. 

It’s a surreal feeling, the realization that Damian might have had different expectations. Where the hell would the kid have even gotten the idea? As far as Tim knows about the kid, it’s not like he was raised under any delusions of good parenting.

“Now do you want to tell me the real problem?” Tim says.

“I told you,” Damian hisses. For the first time, Tim notices the kid’s still in his pajamas. It makes him look all the more younger. He wasn’t allowed out on patrol tonight. Bruce found out that he snuck out because of course he did, and grounded him. The fact that Tim promised to cover for him and promptly failed to do that really did nothing to put him back in Damian’s good graces. It makes this conversation all the more confusing. “You must convince Grayson to stay. Father is unbearable without him. Even an imbecile such as you must have noticed that things are better whenever Grayson like this.”

Tim does know that. Dick knows how to deal with people in a way that Bruce never will.  _ Of course  _ things are better whenever he’s around. He has this way about him, making you want to follow him, always calm, always even-tempered, always in control. He could fix Bruce and all his issues, he could probably even fix Damian’s problems.

Then again, he’s also an ass who’s so completely against the idea of staying for too long at the manor that he almost never does. Not since the crisis. From what Tim heard, the first thing Dick did as Batman was close up the place and move their base of operations to Wayne Tower.

He also left Gotham as soon as he could.  _ Fled.  _ As soon as Bruce was back on his feet. He never stayed if he could help it.

Dick must know the effect he has, the way that things are just better whenever he’s around, that Bruce smiles more, actually laughs, is easier with everyone. Tim used to take comfort in his visits when he was younger, was the perfect adoring kid that he was, that fanboyed to his heart’s content.

And then, Bruce died, and Tim was all alone, and Dick was still more than a bit of an ass who kept running away from things Tim doesn’t know about, and all that hero-worship faded into nothingness.

Tim grew up. He doesn’t really know how to tell Damian any of this. 

_ We cannot go on like this.  _ The thought sinks into Tim for some reason but it’s hard to form something coherent underneath it. There was something underneath there, something underneath the wide eyes and vulnerability Tim’s never seen before. It makes Tim irritable. He should be able to figure this out. It can’t possibly be that complicated. He’s dealing with a murder happy eleven-year-old. The kid’s not that complicated.

There’s a feeling buried deep in Tim’s chest, too, struggling to get free but lost in the hopeless tangle of everything else Tim’s trying to deal with. Tim doesn’t have the energy to try and unravel it right now.

“I can’t do that,” he says.

“You  _ must. _ ”

“Why the hell won’t you do it, then, if it’s so important?”

“I have tried,” Damian says. “I asked him. He said no. He did not understand.”

Damian visited Dick last night. Tim knows this. He spectacularly failed to cover for the kid, not that he was trying very hard. That was what Dick said earlier too. That must have been when this conversation happened. No wonder Dick’s back in Gotham. He always comes running when it’s Damian who needs him.

It makes perfect sense that Damian’s bringing it up now and why Dick is visiting all of a sudden, not that it was a mystery to begin with. Tim knew the answer, probably, deep down. He’s always known, ever since he saw Damian wearing his own Robin costume for the first time. Tim’s mostly over the bitterness. He’s too tired for that kind of thing right now.

But there’s still one thing that doesn’t explain.

“What the hell did you say to Dick?” Tim sounds angry, even to his own ears, which is not how he meant to sound. He doesn’t really understand why. He doesn’t know what he meant to sound like. He just wants to understand.

He doesn’t really  _ feel  _ angry. He doesn’t really feel anything. He thinks that he  _ should  _ feel angry. Damian clearly said something stupid to Dick about Tim and Dick definitely made it bigger than what it actually is. Tim still has no idea why Damian would be saying anything to Dick about him but it figures that the kid would mess even that up.

Damian looks startled for a moment. Then he looks scared. Then he goes back to being angry. He’s stopped looking vulnerable.

“That doesn’t matter,” he says dismissively. “But you have to help me. We must convince Grayson to stay.”

Tim wants to push but he doesn’t really need to, does he? He can imagine what Damian said easily. That he’s being useless again, that he’s not doing anything productive, that he’s holding him back. That’s what Damian always says about him. He never made his distaste for Tim a secret. The better question is why the hell Dick would think that would warrant a visit.

And it still doesn’t explain any of Damian’s fear.

“First, it is important. It’s important to me but whatever, don’t tell me, see if I care,” Tim says. “And second, you can’t convince Dick to do anything he doesn’t want to do. And you’re definitely not going to convince him to live in the manor.”

There’s something that happened between Dick and Bruce before Tim even got there. Something about the manor, particularly. Tim assumes Dick liked living with Bruce once, but at some point, he stopped, and point blank refused to stay there more than two weeks, not even when he was Batman that first time. And maybe it was just time that drove Dick away or maybe it was something else but Tim never pried. It never seemed like the kind of thing he could just ask about.

A flicker of  _ something  _ on Damian’s face _.  _ Tim gets all the more irritated. There are too many questions here. Too many variables. Too many things he doesn’t understand. Too many things Damian isn’t willing to give away, more things  _ Damian  _ doesn’t understand. He has absolutely nothing to go on.

Tim still hasn’t met a puzzle he doesn’t want to solve. At least that hasn’t changed yet.

“You must convince him,” Damian repeats. “He listens to you.”

Tim has no idea where Damian could have possibly gotten that idea. It’s not like he and Dick have worked together since Tim came back. He shakes his head. Dick Grayson has never listened to good advice if he can help it. It always seems to work out for him, anyway.

“No he doesn’t,” he says, and makes the first good decision he’s made in a long time: he walks away.

 

* * *

Tim manages around three hours of sleep that night. 

He doesn’t remember dreaming but he still wakes up in a cold sweat, shaky breaths being ripped out of his chest. For some reason, Damian’s words are playing in his head, over and over again,

_ We cannot go on like this. _

* * *

 

 

Breakfast is an awkward affair. First and foremost because it happens at around eleven in the morning and it really wasn’t breakfast to begin with; it was brunch.

Brunch, in Tim’s opinion, is an inherently awkward affair. You have to acknowledge everyone’s unhealthy habits by hosting it. How no one actually sleeps in the manor, and how their eating habits are purposefully and healthily boring because they are superheroes and they need to keep up the healthy lifestyle of a superhero.

Tim would really much rather prefer spending his entire day huddled under his blanket and pretending the world doesn’t exist, just give in to the exhaustion and sleep for thirteen hours and maybe a little more. He still can’t get Damian’s voice out of his head.

_ We cannot go on like this. _

Sometimes, the best way to deal with problems is to bury your head under a problem and pretend it doesn’t exist; just go on with your life and your motives and your goals as if nothing’s changed. Tim’s found that it works best for his personal problems. 

But then, Alfred insists that everyone in the manor eat their meals in the morning together and no one is capable of saying no to Alfred. No matter how much all of them clearly want to. Alfred is very much not above very calmly and passive aggressively threatening them with embarrassing information. 

Obviously, it always works. Some days, Tim wonders if this isn’t Alfred’s form of revenge for all the near misses they have to make him go through. He wouldn’t blame Alfred if it was.

The four of them are dealing with brunch with varying degrees of success. Damian is currently attempting to murder his PB&J, which is how he usually eats, Bruce is pretending none of them exist, which he has a habit of doing before mid afternoon, too busy buried in the paper and probably daydreaming about his bed, Tim is just sinking as low as he can in his seat and trying not to twitch because Alfred forbid him both his tablet and coffee at the dining room table. None of them speak.

That doesn’t seem to matter. It never mattered before. The silence is oppressive, more than a little painful, and like all things that are oppressive and painful, Tim, Damian, and Bruce do their absolute best to extract themselves from the situation as soon as possible.

Tim can’t help but mulling over Damian’s words. It kept him up for too long. Talking to Dick. Getting Dick to stay. Having Dick fix up their family in the way only Dick would possibly able to. 

_ We cannot go on like this. _

Thinking about it should have made things easier, shouldn’t it? Tim thinks he would have bought into Damian’s plan once, not so much anymore. There’s still that niggling of doubt, that hole of  _ something  _ that Tim still can’t quite wrap his head around. It leaves Tim wrong-footed and uncertain. Tim doesn’t like feeling that way at all.

On the other hand, there’s a lot of things Tim doesn’t like. There’s not very many things he wouldn’t sacrifice for the greater good. Damian’s gaze is made of pure steel now, burning a hole into Tim’s carefully crafted mask.

Brunch is, as always, still an incredibly awkward affair.

The good news: Brunch isn’t as silent as it used to be because Dick is there.

The bad news: Dick is there and is talking like he’s going to lose his voice if he stops.

Dick seems determined to fill every single silence with a lot of talking. Tim is a little bit amazed. He can’t quite follow whatever Dick’s talking about but the warm, happy, even rise and falls of Dick’s words is enough to settle something inside Tim. It’s familiar and soothing but not quite soothing enough to lull him back to sleep. Dick probably got to bed at the same time as all of them. It makes no sense for him to be so full of energy at this time in the morning.

“So,” Dick says, and Tim realizes that he’s being directly addressed, in the sense that the entire table is being directly addressed. Tim thinks that he hears a sharpness in Dick’s tone but he could also be very well imagining it given how the morning’s going. “How are things here? I hope you guys haven’t been wreaking things without me?”

Tim tenses. Damian, on the other hand, immediately perks up. He’s definitely a lot less stabby with Dick here. Tim hadn’t even imagined it was possible before Bruce came back, but Damian is definitely a lot more bearable to be around when Dick is close by. He’s a lot less angry. 

Tim supposes he can understand that. What he’s not sure is if Damian’s anger is because of close proximity with Bruce for prolonged periods of time or if it’s prolonged separation from Dick Grayson. It could be either, really. Tim doesn’t really think about it much. The reason doesn’t really matter, in the grand scheme of things.

“Things are fine,” Bruce says, not bothering to put down from the paper.

Damian is giving Tim a very pointed look. Tim pretends he doesn’t notice and continues to cut his omelette with neat and precise lines.

Damian’s gaze is still burning a whole into Tim’s skull. Tim can’t bring himself to do anything about it.

“Is it?” Dick says sweetly. His voice is very definitely sharp now, like a surgeon’s knife digging through a body. He’s looking for something. Tim remembers the conversation in the cave earlier and feels an ounce of something sinking deep in his stomach. 

“It is,” Bruce says. It’s impossible that he didn’t notice the sharpness in Dick’s gaze, the same sharpness he’s projecting through his entire body. A pause. And then, “You didn’t tell me you were coming over.”

Dick’s smile widens. “It was supposed to be a surprise,” he says. “You don’t mind, do you boss?”

A pause again. “Of course not,” Bruce says. Tim is sitting across from Bruce. He can’t see the expression on his face behind the paper. He can’t predict the outcome of this conversation.

“Good,” Dick says. “I’d hate to intrude, after all.”

Bruce puts down the paper, eyes unreadable. “You never do, Dick,” he says softly.

Dick’s smile softens, falling apart at the edges. Tim gets the impression that they are having a completely different conversation than the one they’re having. They have a lot of those. Tim’s stopped feeling like an outsider a long time ago (Not accurate. More of Tim’s mostly convinced himself that it doesn’t bother him because  _ it shouldn’t _ ). It’s just the way things are, really.

It’s that thing he never asked about, that thing he thinks no one can ask about now. It’s something that festered, something that put this chasm between the two of them that they won’t really be able to cross anymore. Wounds heal, scars are there to serve as reminders of where a person is a little more brittle, a little more breakable.

It probably started out as something small. Bruce was probably an ass about something. Maybe he took away something from Dick, something that was important, something that shouldn’t have been taken away at all.

Maybe it was just one wrong word. One moment of frustration spilling over. One moment things are bad but tentatively okay, and the next, home is ripped away from Dick’s feet and he found himself and all alone.

Then another problem came and Dick had to come back running and Bruce never apologized because he never did. And then… And then… 

_ I never apologized to you. _

A lot of things between them have probably been left unsaid. Have still gone unsaid.

Tim closes his eyes and steadies his breathing. In and out. In and out.

He opens his eyes and Damian is still watching him. His jaw is clenched, eyes imploring. Tim doesn’t resent it as much. He continues cutting, making the omelette into nice, small, little, bite-sized squares.

“How long do you intend to stay?” Bruce asks.

Dick shrugs. “Just over the weekend. Things to do, you know?” he says, which is what he always says. It used to fill TIm with joy, hearing those words. Now there’s only a flicker of joy and a lot more resentment than necessary. Dick never stays, anyway. Dick runs, Dick deflects, Dick smiles and pretends nothing is wrong even when everything is wrong.

Tim is staring resolutely at his plate. Through his eyelashes, he sees Damian look down to hide a flinch. Tim thinks the flicker in his chest might be sympathy.

“That’s good,” Bruce says, which is what  _ he  _ always says. Tim feels another stab of exhaustion.

Dick takes a deep breath, rubbing at his eyes, body slumping forward. He puts down his fork and Tim notices for the first time that his meal is untouched. 

“I think I’ll head on up to my room for a while if that’s okay,” Dick says, standing up. He turns to Tim and Damian. “I’ll see you two later, alright? And we’ll talk about… We’ll talk about whatever we have to talk about, alright?”

He doesn’t wait for them to answer.

Tim closes his eyes. He opens them to see that Damian is watching him. Bruce, as usual, is silent. Tim genuinely doesn’t know if he doesn’t notice or is just pretending not to. 

“Fine,” Tim mouths at Damian. He has no idea why he’s promising this, only that Damian still seems to genuinely believe in Dick and his ability to make things okay and Tim wouldn’t wish this exhaustion on his chest on anyone.

Damian nods, expression tight.

Tim looks down at his plate and realizes that he’s almost completely shredded his omelette and scratched up the china. He sighs. Time to do the impossible then. 

* * *

 

 

Tim waits for Dick in the gymnasium. Dick always wanders into it at some point, especially if he’s frustrated or working through a problem. Tim would take a guess that Dick’s doing a lot of both right now. He’d told Damian to wait outside. That this conversation isn’t for him, because it isn’t. Tim’s not even sure if it will get Dick to stay. He’s not running away from  _ Tim  _ after all.

It’s still a conversation that needs to be had, if Tim can stand the thought of living with Dick again.

He doesn’t really tell Damian any of his reasoning. The kid looked like he wanted to complain but Tim had glared at him and that was the end of that.

(It probably wasn’t. Damian would find a way to get back at him for it eventually.)

Sure enough, Dick wanders in at around five in the afternoon. There’s a distracted look on his face, lips pressed into a thin line. He doesn’t look at Tim at first, though Tim can tell the exact moment Dick notices he’s there based on the way his expression clears.

Everyone in their family is all too good at hiding from their problems. Tim doesn’t think he’s any better. He’s just more tired than all of them combined.

“I think,” Tim says, and his voice still comes out hoarse, like he’d been screaming or crying or both. It’s not an impossibility. He’s sounded like that for a while now. “That there’s a lot that we need to talk about.”

Dick turns to him, face calm and guarded. Tim doesn’t know what else--Dick’s too good at hiding--but he’d like to think it’s at least a tiny bit hopeful.

“Yeah?” Dick says.

“Yeah,” Tim says. “I don’t want anything else left unsaid between us anymore.” And he means to say more, he really does, but all of a sudden, he’s unsure. He hadn’t thought this far ahead. He hadn’t really planned anything. There’s nothing laid out, no contingencies to fall back on. Tim’s just winging it.  _ Things always went wrong when Tim winged things. _

Knowing that something has to be done is, after all, very different from actually going out and doing it.

He looks at Dick, uncertain. Dick looks back at him patiently. Tim swallows. He’s probably not going to need any help on this. Dick probably wouldn’t even know how to help Tim on this, even if he wanted to, and that’s still debatable, since. It’s an uncomfortable conversation. Tim can’t possibly be the only one who wants to run away from it.

Time to get real, probably.

“I,” he begins, then shakes his head. “I--I didn’t--When we were--Damian wants you to stay,” he blurts out. “Permanently, I mean. He wants you to stay permanently.” Tim hasn’t stumbled over his words like this in  _ years.  _

Dick tilts his head. “I didn’t take you for Damian’s messenger,” he says. “I didn’t take Damian as someone who would  _ need _ a messenger.”

“He tried to tell you himself but from what I heard, you wouldn’t listen.”

Dick leans against the balance beams. Tim crosses his arms and hunches his shoulders. A deep breath, one after the other. That’s all he needs to get through this conversation.

“And what do you want, Timmy?” Dick asks. “Do you want me to stay?”

“I--” Tim says, and cuts himself off again. He doesn’t know what he wants to say so it’s probably better if he says nothing.

Probably not, though. Dick’s better at reading Tim than anyone. He grimaces, which means he understands what Tim doesn’t say. He probably understands what TIm doesn’t say better than Tim does.

“I am sorry, Tim,” Dick says quietly. “I never meant to hurt you.” He doesn’t say he regrets it, which Tim appreciates. He doesn’t know how well he’d handle Dick lying to him right now.

“I know.” Maybe a little too intimately, in Tim’s case. People rarely ever mean to hurt anyone. They rarely mean to hurt Tim. His parents never meant to leave him behind, and Bruce never meant to look at Tim and only see his dead son, and Dick hadn’t meant to obliterate Tim’s world by taking Robin from him without permission. None of them ever meant to do that. Most of the time, hurting people is just the side effect of other, more important things. 

That’s probably the most painful part of all.

“What do you want me to do, Tim?” Dick asks. “Whatever you want, kid. Ask me to go away, stay, anything. What do you need me to do? What do you need to be happy?” The nickname doesn’t sting the way it usually does. Tim doesn’t know what he feels. He thinks it doesn’t really matter that much, in the grand scheme of things. 

“I,” Tim says. And he finally decides on what to say. “I’m not happy,” and there’s something almost like relief that surges through his chest when he said those words. He thinks they needed to be said. “I don’t think I’m going to be happy for a long time and I don’t think there’s anything you can do about it.”

Tim… He’s been like this for a long time and it feels like he’s going to be like this for much longer. It’s not Dick’s fault. It’s not Bruce’s fault. It’s not anyone’s fault. He’s almost even convinced himself that it isn’t his fault, either.

Things happened. A lot of things. And yeah, everyone could have handled things better in the long run, but they handled things the best they could at the time. They didn’t make good choices but maybe they were the only choices they had. Most of them really had nothing to do with Tim in the grand scheme of things. He’s just collateral damage.

And yeah, that hurts a lot too, but it’s a more manageable hurt. Tim thinks it’s a hurt he can live with if it means he’s not hurting other people.

“You can’t fix this. You can’t fix me,” Tim says. “That’s not your job. I’ll be fine, Dick.” And he’s surprised when he realizes he means it.

This too shall pass, or something like that. Tim’s good at picking himself up, always has been. Things are better now. Things are good. And they were bad for a long time but that’s in the past and Tim really can’t do anything about it.

Tim stares at the ground. “I wouldn’t mind the help,  _ your  _ help, though, but.” He forces himself to look up. “What do you want to do? And don’t--Don’t lie to me, alright because it’d be stupid if you’re doing something to make me and Damian happy and make yourself unhappy along the way and I can’t stand you lying right now or your self-sacrificing bullshit. That’s just really  _ stupid  _ and I don’t want you to do that so you have to tell me. You have to. What do you want to do?”

Dick attempts to smile but stops when Tim narrows his eyes. He thinks he can pick apart lies too. And he needs Dick to tell the truth. Dick must know this, too.

He presses his lips into a thin line and doesn’t say anything. Tim looks down. He understands what Dick doesn’t say well enough.

“You should probably talk to Damian, then,” Tim says after a moment. “And visit more often so he doesn’t get antsy.”

“And you?”

“I’ll be fine, Dick,” Tim says. “You don’t have to take care of me you know?” He might have said that bitterly even a few months ago because it’s always like that, Damian before Tim, Tim always getting left behind, Tim always forgotten. It’s not helpful to dwell on it. Tim has some good things in his life, moments of beauty and bliss. He thinks he’d prefer to think about that than anything else.

“Of course I do,” Dick says.

Tim smiles slightly. He doesn’t really feel like smiling but he almost does and that has to count for something, right? 

“Talk to Damian,” he says. “Actually talk to him without your self-sacrificing bullshit. Then maybe things will get better.”

Damian was right about one thing, they’ve stagnated, so set in their ways of doing everything for each other and lying about it that they’ve forgotten how to be honest and do things for themselves. That’s probably not what the kid meant but he is right, they can’t really go on like this.

“And in the meantime,” he says. “You are going to show me that thing you did on the parallel bars because I want to do it too.”

Dick smiles. It’s small but it’s a lot more real than anything Tim’s seen so far. Something in his chest loosens and it feels like taking a deep breath after a long time underwater.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, your comments give me life <3
> 
> Also chat with me on [tumblr](https://acediscowlng.tumblr.com) if you want :D


	5. damian ii

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... It's been 8 months and this fic has caused me no small amount of grief.
> 
> Y'all remember how I find writing Damian really, really difficult? Well, Damian Wayne took one look at my outline, ripped it out of my hands, and proceeded to beat me up with it and write his own story. I tried to wrestle things back in my control, which involved rewriting this chapter several times, to no avail. Damian is truly a worthy opponent. So, 8 months later, I just decided to give up. If you'll notice, the comfort disappeared from the hurt/comfort tag, because yes. None of these characters want to be comforted.
> 
> Apologies for the long wait. Please enjoy the angst!

Damian waits for Drake in their father’s study.

His conversation with Grayson takes a long time, _too_ long, in Damian’s opinion, but he is patient enough to wait. He does not like staying in their father’s study for any length of time, but this is important. He cannot wait.

“So,” he asks, struggling to keep the eagerness out of his voice as Drake steps out of the grandfather clock. “Will he stay?”

Drake just looks at him. His gaze is exhausted, like it always is these days, but not as empty. It gives Damian some hope.

“Talk to Dick, Damian,” he says. “Just… Just talk to him.”

And, he walks away. Just like that. And Damian feels the frustration in his chest grow and threaten to spill over in a scream.

Disappointment settles heavily on his chest but Damian has gotten very good at pretending it does not exist.

\--

No matter what anyone else says, there is a problem in Wayne manor. The fact that no one is saying anything about it at all is rapidly driving Damian mad.

The problem is evident: everyone in their family is much too comfortable with lying. Damian is not _stupid._ He knows that pregnant pauses and terse silences are not how conversations are supposed to happen. He knows that is not how most families function.

(Though he does wonder. He cannot quite imagine merely walking up to his Father and telling him how he feels when, most of the time, he himself does not know what he feels. He does not believe it is something that actually happens, no matter what Jon Kent tells him.)

The problem is more than evident. The solution is… elusive. More than anything, Damian does not appreciate being made helpless. And he does not like seeking the assistance of others. 

He cannot trust anyone but himself, his own mind, and his own skills. That is what his mother always told him. In that regard, she is right.

Drake has clearly failed. Damian doesn’t know why he believed the opposite would be possible. It was a lapse in judgement; trusting other people to do his tasks for him. Mother would have been disappointed.

Damian never should have relied on him, never should have trusted him. He should have known better. The only person he can trust is himself. Everyone else is either going to betray him or fail him. It’s a tried and true method and Damian has more than enough experience as evidence.

His mother had betrayed him. In a way, so did his Father, especially in the beginning. Grayson had failed him, failed to give him the right answer, be there for Damian when Damian needed him the most. And now, Drake has failed him as well, _which was only to be expected of course it was only to be expected_. He merely shrugs when he catches Damian looking at him at dinner.

‘Talk to Dick,’ Drake mouths to Damian at dinner. Their father is not with them. He decided to patrol earlier and leave them to their own devices (another decision that makes Damian clench his jaw for reasons he is refusing to acknowledge.) Drake and Grayson have their own case to work on later that night, and Damian is technically still grounded. 

Damian glares at him. Drake merely shrugs.

Grayson’s eyes flicker back and forth between the two of them. Surely, he notices something is amiss, but he does not comment on it. He does not say anything, like everyone in their cursed household.

Damian almost wishes he would. He almost wants to start a fight, demand answers, and throw a tantrum. He wants things to come to a head and finally cut the tension. He looks at Grayson and Grayson is looking back. Expectant and patient. He searches Damian’s face for something and he seems to be waiting for something.

Damian looks back to Drake, who nods encouragingly. Damian glares harder at him and does nothing.

Silence hangs over the three of them like an axe throughout dinner. It is _suffocating._ Typically, the silence at meal times disappears just through the sheer force of Grayson’s presence. Even when it was just the two of them, Grayson would chatter on and on about anything and everything. Damian’s silence had not stopped him then. And, when he returned, Drake’s frosty indifference did nothing to stop him, either.

Now, they are having dinner and Grayson is silent.

By the end of it, Damian was on the verge of screaming. He almost storms out, almost slams his fist on the table, stab the wood with the bread knife. He almost does something, _anything,_ to break the oppressive silence.

But he does not. He does not because Grayson is silent the entire time they’re eating as well. When Damian refuses to say his piece, his gaze becomes calculating and a little distant. Damian cannot read the expression on his face, hidden as it was behind a smooth mask.

Sometimes, Grayson does look so much like their father. This strange, contemplative silence sends shivers down Damian’s spine with how utterly wrong it is.

It is supposed to be different, now that Grayson is back home. _Grayson_ is supposed to be different.

Damian pushes his plate back, the food barely touched. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Drake picking at his plate and taking tentative bites. At least he is eating, Damian thinks. Drake has gotten very good at pretending to eat lately. Perhaps the awkwardness of the situation had finally broken him out of the habit. 

“I am finished,” Damian says. “May I be excused?”

Grayson’s sharp gaze turns towards Damian and Damian does his best not to cower under it. Then, the older man’s face breaks out into a smile so bright, blinding, and familiar, that Damian’s heart stutters in his chest.

“I think I’m done for tonight, too,” Grayson says. “Want to come upstairs with me, kiddo? There’s something we need to talk about.”

There is a _look_ in Grayson’s eyes. He is planning something and Damian cannot possibly guess what it is. He wants to say no, but somehow, he finds himself nodding.

Grayson’s smile widens. He turns to Drake. “And don’t think you’re getting out of this conversation, Tim. We’re not done talking and you’re finishing that plate.” His voice is perfectly pleasant but there is steel behind it.

“Whatever you say, Dick,” Drake says tonelessly. But he takes another small bite, so Damian thinks it is not a completely lost cause.

Grayson turns back to him. “Come on Damian,” he says. “Let’s talk in the study.”

Damian’s heart is pounding in his chest. Going into his father’s study may be the last thing he wants to do. But Grayson walks away without so much as a backwards glance, like he fully expects Damian to follow him.

And…

He’s not wrong. Grayson has trusted Damian to follow his lead before. Damian will not be the one to break that trust now.

\--

Damian was very much _not_ avoiding their father’s study. It would be stupid to even attempt it since the entrance to the cave is right there. But, if he was avoiding it, it definitely was not because he feels like an intruder in something old and untouchable. Definitely not.

(Grayson’s study, back at the penthouse, had alternated between completely bare and a mess and a whirlwind rolled into one. Damian never felt like he was intruding in there because it never felt like it could be disturbed to begin with.)

Grayson was completely at ease in the study. He leans against the desk, arms crossed over his chest, and looks for all the world like he completely belongs there.

(Of course he does. Grayson belongs anywhere he chooses to be. He fits so easily anywhere. It’s only Damian that--It’s only Damian that--

But, no. Grayson does not like him thinking like that, so he does not.)

“I think I have a solution to your problem,” Grayson says. 

Damian narrows his eyes. Grayson is looking at him with gleaming eyes, as if he just found the solution to an unsolvable problem. 

“Do you even know what the problem is?” Damian asks.

Grayson shrugs. “Not really,” he says, and Damian’s eyes narrow even further. “But I can guess. I lived here too, you know. And for much longer. The house is pretty big. Big and empty. Especially when everyone who lives here is avoiding each other.”

“I do not think that is the house’s fault,” Damian says.

“No it’s not,” Grayson says. “And I think you’re hurt that you’ve figured that out.”

Damian presses his lips together. 

“I do not have a problem with the house,” he says.

Grayson smiles softly. Gently. “No,” he says. “You don’t.”

“I do not know how to solve the problem I do have,” Damian says. Places are just places. That is what Grayson taught him. Whether it is the penthouse or the manor or that small apartment on the outskirts of Bludhaven, they do not mean anything. They are not the problem. They are merely a symptom.

There is a problem and it has nothing to do with who lives where. Not really.

“I--” Damian opens his mouth but he cannot make himself ask. Grayson lives in Bludhaven now, instead of Gotham. That is not the problem. Grayson is happy in Bludhaven, and that is not the problem, either. Damian may never understand why, but Grayson being happy can never be a problem.

The problem is that _Damian_ is unhappy and he knows why, though he will never admit it. He is unhappy and there is nothing he can do about it. It would be selfish to even try. Damian knew that the first time he snuck out, but that had not stopped him.

The knowledge is stopping him now.

Grayson does not want to stay but Damian does not want him to go. But Damian is used to beating impossible odds, used to charging straight at it and making it bend to his wishes through sheer force of will. But this is not a fight and even if it is, Damian seems to have lost even before it started.

Grayson’s smile softens even more as he watches Damian struggle with his words.

“Come here, kiddo,” he says, so Damian steps closer. The older man places a hand on his cheek, almost painful in how gentle it is. Damian leans into the touch automatically. “This is really bothering you, huh?”

“I cannot stay here,” Damian whispers, and that small admission almost feels too much. “Not like this. I can’t--”

Not in this distant home with a brother who seems intent on disappearing and a father determined not to be present. These days, Damian spends his time wandering large, empty halls, pretending that the silence is anything but oppressive. In the morning, he wonders if he will see his father or if he will not. If they speak to each other or if they will not. If the words they exchange will be cruel or will be kind.

(It is almost too easy to forget how much Damian fought with his father before his death. After he came back to life, _of course_ Damian was happy. He loves his father and would always prefer him alive instead of dead.

But love does not erase the fights they had. And, as Damian has come to discover, it does not prevent future ones from happening.)

“Then don’t,” Grayson says. His hands stray from Damian’s cheek down to his shoulder. “Don’t stay here.”

Damian is surprised. He feels his heart skip a beat. “What,” is all he could say.

“Come with me,” Grayson says. He shrugs, looking much more like himself all of a sudden, calm and easy-going. Willing to accept any answer Damian gives. “At least for a little while. Or don’t. Summer’s coming soon. You don’t actually have to stay here. Go anywhere you want. You can stay with me for a while, if that’s what you want, but you can do other things too. Meet younger heroes. Form a team, make friends. Stay with the Kents. They’ll absolutely _love_ to have you over.”

“Robin is supposed to stay with Batman,” Damian says blankly. Sons are supposed to stay with their fathers.

Grayson shrugs again. “If you like,” he says. “I’m not gonna tell you how to be Robin. But you’re not just Robin, are you?”

Damian’s mouth clicks shut. Grayson says it often. _You’re not just Robin,_ as if being Robin isn’t exactly what Damian came here to be. What else is he supposed to be, if not for Robin? What else does he have, if he does not give everything to help his father.

But Grayson is not their father and somehow, he became Damian’s Batman. Grayson seems determined to convince Damian that there’s a life to be had outside of fighting. 

It is a hard lesson to learn. Damian does not understand any part of it, but he is trying.

“What do you want, Damian?” Grayson asks, because he _always_ asks that. Damian _hates_ it. He just wants Grayson to tell him the right answer. He wants someone to tell him what to do. 

“What does it matter?” he asks. “Why does what I want matter so much to you?”

Grayson doesn’t answer immediately. Something that isn’t quite pity flickers through his face. Grayson said he would never pity Damian and Damian believes him. But if it isn’t pity, then it’s sadness, and Damian doesn’t want Grayson to be sad for him, either.

“You’re my partner,” Grayson says. “Of course it matters to me.”

“I--” He wants Grayson to stay, but Grayson does not want to stay. Damian does not know why. He wants to ask, but he’s not certain if he will like the answer. Grayson is unhappy in the manor and Damian wants him to be happy.

Grayson keeps very few secrets from him, but there is something about him and this house and their father that he wants to keep unsaid. Damian does not want to deny him that. He trusts him.

“I--” He tries again. “Gotham is not the same without you.” Just saying the words out loud feels like the worst betrayal he can do to his father.

“Why not?” Grayson asks.

“Everything is different. The manor. The city. Robin. Father is--” He cuts himself off. He cannot. He cannot say it out loud. He came here to Gotham to know his Father and now he does. What does it matter if he doesn’t quite like the person he knows? He loves his Father. He won’t betray him like that.

He already betrayed his mother, after all. Grayson seems to understand.

“I can’t fix Bruce for you, Damian,” he says. “I think you know that.” The words sound tired and resigned; an admission in their own right.

“But you can make things better,” Damian says desperately. One last attempt, he thinks. One last attempt before everything falls apart and he gives up completely. “He’s better with you.”

It is not distinct, but it is noticeable. Happening so gradually that Damian can only see the difference if he looks back and remembers how utterly dark and despondent the world was without Grayson. He was like the sun, bringing light and warmth into a very, very cold place.

One conversation seems to have breathed life into Drake when he had been nothing but a ghost for months. Their father _smiles_ whenever Grayson comes home. Small, but endlessly soft and true.

“You don’t fix people, Damian,” Grayson says. For the first time, his eyes stray away from Damian, going distant and unfocused. “You don’t make them better. It’s not your fault if they end up hurting you.”

“Grayson _please_ \--” The words die on his lips. There is a small, sad smile on Grayson’s lips and there can be no doubt as to what it means.

“Then what am I supposed to do?” Damian demands. “What do you expect me to do?”

There must be _something._ It can’t be that simple, that helpless. He cannot be trapped in this endless misery of failed expectations. Grayson had spoiled him. Damian never had any expectations for him, and yet, he managed to go well above them.

“Talk to your dad,” Grayson says. “I’m not going to promise he’ll change, or even that he’ll listen. But you should tell him how you feel. Me and the others, we never did, and look where that got us.”

“And then?”

“Then you do what you want.” Grayson looks at him, light and serious at the same time. Whatever Damian says, he will accept. The choice feels almost too heavy on his shoulders. “What do you want to do?”

Damian bites his lip--the only show of weakness he’ll allow--and doesn’t answer.

“Think about it, yeah?” Grayson says gently. “I know it’s not fair to ask you right now, but think about what’s going to make you happy.”

“Why does that _matter_?”

Grayson pulls him into an embrace. The movement is so sudden and abrupt, Damian could not twist away from it. 

Not that he wants to. He feels all the tension in his muscles disappear at the simple touch.

“We’ve all made mistakes, kiddo,” he says quietly. “Don’t do the same. Run if you have to, as soon as you can. Don’t sacrifice your happiness. Not for Bruce, not for _anything._ ”

And Damian does not have anything he can say to that.

\--

That night, Damian goes out again. His father grounded him, but that has never stopped him before. There is an anger in his chest, waiting to get out like a wild animal, much too eager to destroy everything around him.

(He couldn’t name it if he wanted to, couldn’t name a reason for that barely controllable rage that seeks to consume him, so he doesn’t. Damian thinks there may be grief mixed in there as well, and he has no idea what to do with that.)

It is remarkably easy to find someone who deserves to be hurt in Gotham, where criminals grow out of every alleyway like weeds. It’s a much more difficult task to hold himself back. 

(The anger is rage and his rage is wild and it wants to hurt and Damian is too good at hurting and and and--

It does a good enough job of masking the hurt buried deep in his chest.)

The mugger is easy to take down. Damian is still small, but he knows how to use that to his advantage. The civilian runs away at the first opportunity (at the first sight of red, green, and yellow, and wasn’t he supposed to be a symbol of hope and light? Wasn’t that what Grayson said? Then why… Why…) and Damian hardly notices as he brings his fists down over and over again on the man’s face. He’s rapidly losing consciousness, but Damian doesn’t notice or care.

The anger in his chest is blooming like an explosion. It hurts. It hurts and he doesn’t understand why, only that he cannot stop, cannot falter. He cannot leave and this is what he came here to do: save the innocent and punish the guilty. 

Damian is good at punishments. The League of Assassins is well-versed in it, and he may be young, but he’s spent an entire life learning their ways.

(Dark red clouds his vision. It may be all the blood dripping from his gauntlets.)

_You’re too angry._ In the distance of his mind, he hears his father’s voice. It’s soft and hard to understand and it only serves to make him angrier. Who is Batman to criticize anyone’s anger when that tightly controlled rage lingers in everything he does?

(There is also Bruce Wayne and Bruce Wayne is not Batman. Bruce Wayne who is full of soft, fond eyes. There is Bruce Wayne who is a warm hand on Damian’s shoulder, an arm wrapped around his waist, gently guiding him to bed. There is Bruce Wayne who cares enough to know his children and never treated them as his soldiers.

There is a Bruce Wayne who is a good father, but Damian does not know him very well. He’s only caught glimpses of the man his siblings once adored.

Damian does not hear Bruce Wayne’s voice in his mind.)

Damian does not falter.

_This is not what Grayson wants for you._ Damian sucks in a sharp breath. It’s his own voice this time and it makes him fall still, for just a moment, and think, and think, and think--

A bullet rings through the air.

Damian whirls around to see a familiar figure.

“Pretty sure the guy’s as unconscious as it’s gonna get, Little Bird,” a detached, mechanical voice says. “Or is this your way of giving Batman the finger? You know ‘Wing’s not gonna be happy with you, either, right?”

“Leave me _alone,_ Hood,” Damian spits out. Todd does the exact opposite, approaching Damian slowly. Damian debates on whether or not he should just leave. He’s done what he needs to do here, and Todd seems to want to have a conversation about it. Damian is sick of it. He is sick of all the talking and going around in circles and meaningless words that never resolve anything.

He is, all of a sudden, very, very tired.

“Can’t do that,” Todd says. “ _I_ don’t mind you beating some thug half to death, but Nightwing’s gonna find out eventually and he’s going to be insufferable when he figures out I didn’t stop you. So stand down, kid. That guy’s had enough.”

“What does it matter,” Damian says. “He’s leaving anyway.”

After a beat of silence, Todd barks out a laugh. He takes a few more careful steps towards Damian. “That’s kind of his thing. You should get used to it.”

“Well it shouldn’t,” Damian snaps. “He should stay _home._ ” 

Childish, he thinks. Childish, and spoiled, and petulant. Shouldn’t Damian have learned to tamp down on these desires by now? He is not a _child._ He should know better than to ask for things he cannot possibly have.

Todd continues to stare at him. He is wearing his mask so it is impossible to get a read of his face, but Damian still gets the impression that the other man is amused. 

Damian rises and turns away. He’s stayed long enough and he does not have the patience to speak with Todd any longer. It’s time he found something better to do.

“Kid,” Todd calls out. “Wait.”

Damian can feel him staring. There’s nothing hostile about his body language, but that doesn’t mean much. Fights between them can break out quicker than the blink of an eye, after all.

“You’re fighting with him, aren’t you.” It’s not a question. “The big bat finally getting on your nerves? Don’t worry. Happens to the best of us.”

Damian’s shoulders tense. He still does not turn back. He is not going to give Todd the satisfaction. But, no matter how hard he tries, he cannot make himself leave, either.

“You’re fighting with him,” Hood says. “You’re actually fighting with the big bat. Oh, this is hilarious.”

“I’m not _fighting_ with him.” 

That’s what Damian says. And it is even true, for the most part. They are not fighting because sons don’t fight with their fathers, and Damian is his father’s son. 

( _Good_ sons do not fight with their father. His brothers would disagree, but they’ve been estranged with Batman at some point, and their anger, their _mistrust,_ hasn’t disappeared. They don’t look at their father the way Damian does. Their love is always tinged with a hint of resentment and all of them, even Grayson who had always been so faithful and beloved, found happiness far, far from home.

Damian wants so very much to be a good son, but no one will let him, no one will tell him what to do. They simply discard his devotion as something he’ll learn to leave behind eventually.

Damian loves his father very much so he does not fight with him.)

(The problem with their family is every single one of them is too skilled at lying.

Damian is, perhaps, the best at telling himself things that are not true and willing reality to bend to his will. 

It never does, but that does not stop him from trying.)

“This was a mistake,” he says, turning on his heel. “I should not have stayed.”

He should not have left in the first place. The anger that had fuelled him in the beginning had disappeared, leaving him tired and…

Tired. He is so very tired.

Damian thinks he can make it back to the manor without anyone noticing. He hopes this is the case. Hopefully, Red Hood is not going to tell on him. The possibility of it is slim, but Todd has always been unpredictable.

“If we were a normal family,” Todd says suddenly, making Damian freeze. “You’d just go talk to someone. Maybe get some therapy if things don’t work out so well. But you’re not getting any of that from this family, and I think you know it. None of us are built that way.”

“Then what do you expect me to do?” The words fall from his lips without his consent.

Todd shrugs. “You’re Robin, aren’t you?” he says. “Robin always does what he wants, doesn’t he?” His voice is sardonic but the words sound sincere enough.

“Why does everyone say that?” Damian demands. “ _What does it even mean?_ For once, can’t any of you just _tell me what to do_?”

A snort. “Well, we did a pretty bad job of handling our issues, didn’t we? Well,” Hood pauses, “you can always run away. That’s what I did. That’s what everyone did and it worked out better than we expected.”

“You _died_.”

“Details,” Todd says dismissively. “Got away, didn’t I? Try it out for yourself. Maybe it’ll work out, maybe it won’t. Better than running around the city looking for something you’re not gonna find. Too much bad habits, bad blood, bad everything.

“The old man is pretty good at making you feel like this city, this life, his way of living it is the entire world. Like it’s the most important thing. It’s not. If you can’t find what you’re looking for here, then go look for it somewhere else.”

“I just want answers,” Damian says. “I want someone to tell me what to do.”

Hood snorts. “I’ll let you in on a secret, kid, because god knows you’re not hearing it from the others,” he says. “There is no answer. Whatever you’re looking for from the big man, you’re not gonna find it, so you might as well give up now.”

Damian opens his mouth to speak when a dark shadow falls over them. Todd tenses before turning on his heel and walking away.

“Guess our time’s up, little bird,” he says, not looking back. “Have fun deciding, yeah?”

And just like that, he is gone and Damian is left alone with the shadow.

“Robin.” A quiet voice. There is a faint hint of disapproval, but nothing else.

Damian is not sorry for sneaking out, so he does not apologize.

“Did you hear what we were speaking about?” he asks instead.

“Yes.”

Damian bites his lip. There are so many things he wants to say, so many answers he wants to demand, a thousand reassurances he wants to hear, but none of them would be enough. None of them would ever be enough.

“Well,” he says. “Do you not have anything to say?”

A beat. A moment that lasts an eternity. Then, Batman says, “If you want to leave, I will not stop you.”

“ _That’s it?_ ” Three sons gone, three sons who all eventually left, and never quite came back. In all his questions about why the others left, he never quite figured out how to ask why their father never did anything to make them stay. 

Once is too much, twice is plain carelessness, and thrice is bordering on indifference.

The thought stings. 

“Are you not even going to _try_ ,” Damian demands, and he is _not_ going to cry. He will not let his father see him so weak. “Your sons have left and you are not even going to stop them?”

“You have your own minds,” Batman says. “I can’t stop you even if I wanted to. Don’t you think I haven’t tried before.” The last part is said with no small amount of anger and regret. Or at least Damian thinks so. His mind may just be playing tricks on him.

And even if it isn’t… Even if it isn’t. It does not matter. What his father said is what his father said, and it is nowhere near enough.

_But that doesn’t mean you should not try again,_ Damian wants to scream. He is shaking, he realizes distantly. And it dawns on him that no matter what he wants to say, there is no point in saying it. Not here, in this too dark alley, with an unconscious criminal lying between them, and not in the manor with its empty halls.

Damian clenches his jaw and refuses to cry.

“You are right,” he says. “You cannot stop us.”

After all, you cannot achieve something if you do not attempt it first. And, clearly, their father is incapable of doing even _that._

So, perhaps for the first time in his life, Damian turns away from his father and walks away.

\--

“Take me with you,” he says to Grayson in the morning.

Grayson smiles but there’s a sad edge to it. Damian thinks he understands. 

This is for the best, he thinks, but the thought does not bring much comfort.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, a few notes:
> 
> \- This was really supposed to be hurt/comfort and have a happy ending and I am baffled how things ended up here. I wanted Bruce to make up with his sons. His sons did not want to make up with their father.  
> \- The fic started as an attempt to explore Bruce's... complicated relationship with his children, which, never really ended well. I know he means well, but he is also very terrible at showing it. Messing your relationship with your first kid... is terrible but kinda understandable. When you're still messing up your relationship with your third child... is inexcusable.  
> \- .... Considering this is how the fic started, I probably should have figured that this would be the inevitable conclusion.  
> \- I feel like I am now obligated to write a fluffy batfam fic as an apology for what happened here. (Bruce I love you, I really do.)  
> \- Only the epilogue left now. I will work on it when I come to terms with the fact that I actually ended up with this angst fic when, and I cannot emphasize this enough, I wanted _fluff and hurt/comfort_.  
> \- I'm acediscowlng on tumblr. Cry about the batfam with me please.

**Author's Note:**

> See y'all next week!
> 
> As always, comments give me life and fuel to write.
> 
> If I forget to update this, come yell at me on [tumblr](https://discowlng.tumblr.com)


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